


seams

by nightseas



Category: Emmerdale
Genre: Affair Era Aaron Dingle/Robert Sugden, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insomnia, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 20:14:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20533928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightseas/pseuds/nightseas
Summary: He's sick of the silence that greets him when he goes to bed, and he's sick of static in his head. Relentless, restless.





	seams

His nights are wasted in hours of restlessness and absence. Darkened eyes staring at the ceiling, at the television, at the moonlight leaking through the blinds. Calloused fingertips tracing the bedsheets, the buttons of the remote, the edges of his phone. Legs folding and unfolding, head pressed against the pillows or tucked into his hands. His bed differs, from laying on a stone to sifting into softness.

Rapid blinking, slow press of his eyelids closed. Regular breathing, then slow rises of his chest. On his front, on his back, on his side. Sat up, stood at the window. Anger rising into the curl of his fists, despair leaking from tired eyes. Earbuds in - Gloomy heartbroken lyrics, then fast aggravated beats. Hands clasped over his ears, pulled into himself. Half two on the clock, half five in a blink. Curses breaking the silence, then teeth sink into chapped lips to stop the litany.

The sun rises, and sleeps slips away with the retreat of the moonlight.

He lies there, on his side with a forlorn expression to the window as dawn greets him. The clock reads half six, yet his eyes are unseeing and brimmed with tears, fists curled under the pillow his head rests on. Knees pulled in and back arched, entirely vulnerable. His soft pyjama t-shirt hugs the scars on his chest, and Aaron _hates_ the pull of the material over them.

He hates a lot of things, and that notion rolls over in his head. Hates the darkness and hates the mornings, hates how they chase each other away. Hates _him_, hates _her_, hates himself. Tired eyelids close and with a deep breath, the hate dissipates. He doesn't hate those things, doesn't truly hate that much.

Resentful of being _tired_. That notion settles better.

Seven am reaches and the shrill alarm of his clock pulls him from his muddy thoughts, and with a groan he pulls himself up. Exhaustion finds itself a home within his bones and as weary as he feels, light headed, he pulls himself into his running gear. It makes him feel lighter, pushing himself rid of bad thoughts and bad feelings. It's a good time to go, before concerned eyes and twitching mouths from my mum and Paddy come for him. His rooms acts like a sanctum and a prison, entirely connected to it and desperate to get away. Aaron lingers in the doorway briefly, fingertips holding onto the doorframe, whilst his ears listen for signs of movement.

Silence greets him, and within minutes he's pounding along tarmac to reach the woods at a steady pace.

Greenery slips by and idly his brain notes how wild flowers are beginning to bloom under the pull of the sun. No longer dampened by frost, no longer constrained. Leaves scatter pathways and the trees curl over his head. Sanctum, but not quite. He opts for headphones not to drown out the birdsong, but the loud audacity of his own tired thoughts. Feels the beat pump into his bloodstream, lets the lyrics slide over his skin and clench at his limbs. Thinks of static as he pants under the exertion. His calves ache and his arms ache and his chest aches. Aaron ignores it, even as his vision slides slightly. Runs until he finds a secluded spot, and sits on a fallen tree amidst the protection of shrubbery. It's a wild palace out here, and yet it makes Aaron feel less feral than when he's at home. Could sleep here, he muses, hands clasped in a knot on his knees whilst he catches his breath. Could stay here and not return, become a wild forest man with a long scraggly beard and no decency to worry about. The thought is absurd, but it almost makes him smile.

He's been told he's wild before, but truth be told, he's as captive as they come.

His watch tells him its touching five to eight when he returns, wobbly on aching legs as he stumbles in. Still, he's careful not to make a lot of commotion, hussles himself upstairs and to the shower before any doors can swing open to catch him vulnerable. The hot water rejuvenates him slightly yet his hands still have to hold him up with his head bowed. Watches shampoo suds circle the drain, wishes he could slip along with it. Lets the soft towel after his shower sit around his waist for perhaps too long, then dresses himself for work in the meantime. Adam volunteered to open first and so he can take his time, although he finds he doesn't want to. Keeping busy does him good, which is why he runs and why he works late. A _click_ draws his attention and he can hear his mum move, trudging downstairs and idly he thinks he should eat. There's no hunger in his stomach, but he can't stand his mother's concerned eyes and unspoken worry. Eats what she puts infront of him, smiles when she strokes his shoulder with an affectionate smile and he leaves for work when he's done.

The day draws by, the hours passed by delving into scrap and exchanging banter with Adam, drawing some genuine smiles from him. Adam is animated today, throwing his hands about when he's telling a story of some dimwitted customer and laughing at his own anecdotes, and Aaron feels guilty at the way his eyes light up when Aaron laughs along. It draws him into some ease, and when six pm draws around, he accepts the offer of a pint. _My treat_, Adam had gushed with a cheerful pat to his shoulder. Adam goes, and Aaron follows with his hands pushed into his pockets and lips tight in a slight smile. 

Exhaustion tightens its hold on him, and yet Aaron refuses to relent.

* * *

Conversations drift through different topics, joined in by different people at different points in the evening. Adam's at his side for the majority of time, whilst they're visited by the likes of Ross and Finn, an appearance by Victoria, the often inputs by his mum. The hour draws round where Adam sees himself off home and leaves an empty space at his side, and it's a good half hour before anyone fills it. 

Out of everyone, Aaron feels conflicted that it's Paddy who slides next to him. The concerned eyes return, a slow tentative smile and Aaron feels his expression draw closed.

"You, uh..." Paddy falters, as though he's apprehensive about speaking him mind but Aaron watches as he overrules himself with a press of his eyes closed and the tilt of his chin. "You look tired - Not saying that in a bad way, jus - just .... Long day at work?" There's kindness in his words and worry creasing his forehead, and Aaron hates the surge of annoyance that fills him. Grunts in response, lifts his pint to his lips and doesn't offer a response.

Paddy tries not to look so rejected, nods with a faltering smile and Aaron feels his scars burn when he closes his eyes.

* * *

It gets worse when the pub door opens, and in comes a smiling Chrissie attached to the arm of Robert. Some inside joke rattling between them, obvious joy and laughter written in each line of her expression. Robert's eyes are bright, and he looks happy. Seems happy, acts happy. It feels like a plague when Chas and Paddy's eyes burn into him from where his head is lowered, and he wants to scream.

To scream and throw his drink, to silence them all with his anger. He wants to wipe that laughter from Chrissie's mouth and wants to scold his mum and Paddy for their concern. He wants to drown his sorrows and he wants to grab Robert and throw him out, wants to press him against a wall, wants to beat that happy look from his features.

He wants all of it, yet he stares to the bottom of his pint and says nothing, does nothing.

It doesn't last long, before he takes himself off behind the bar, and although he doesn't glance at Robert, he feels that stare pressing into his shoulder blades as he retreats. His heart aches, and Aaron feels exhausted. Utterly and truly. His thoughts feel like they sift through mud and his knuckles press into his closed eyes so hard that amongst the interstellar patterns he creates, he doesn't register Paddy at his back. The sound of a throat clearing gets him, and Aaron drops his hands and tips his chin over his shoulder, huffs in response.

"I'll buy the round next time, Paddy. Promise"

Paddy seems to falter in the doorway, mouth opening and closing like he does when he can't find his words. Aaron turns to him then, expression drawn and Paddy sighs, deflates his shoulders and finally utters out what he wants to say. "I'm worried about you, Aaron. You're so quiet lately an' - an' you just look .... " He trails off, and Aaron's skin bristles at the emotion he sees glittering in his eyes: Sympathy. 

"You look sad, all the time. Will y' just talk to me, or your mum, or someone?"

The material of his t-shirt feels heavy on his chest, guilt lighting up each scar, and Aaron says nothing. Turns on his heel and heads up to his room, tries to ignore the crestfallen look on Paddy's face. His cheeks are wet when he sits atop his bed, and he grieves for so much that he cannot put into words. His gaze turns to the sunlight, setting low through his blinds and with a whisper the night descends again. Aaron's tears are a silent plea that no one hears, a cry for himself.

* * *

His nights are wasted in restlessness and absence. He stares at his ceiling and the moon, and he prays for a better day to come with the dawn.


End file.
